January 28, 2023

Yesteryear
One year ago today: January 28, 2022, the headaches are many.
Five years ago today: January 28, 2018, seriouser.
Nine years ago today: January 28, 2014, my Antarctic UFO theory.
Random years ago today: January 28, 2003, the old gang.

           Hello from Melbourne, likely for the first and last time. The trip was worth it, but as tourist destinations, this was Dullsville. A three-hour leisurely drive and $40 of gas, I left at 9:30AM because I wanted a big breakfast. Via Bartow, LakeWales, Yeehaw Junction, then I turned on Armory Road near Sebastian. It was a bit too chilly to leave the van window down and I was listening to an audiobook about the Wichita murderer BTK. In all, the drive was the high part—finding a place to eat was not.

           Where to start? Since I arrived past noon, seeing a museum was top to-do. I passed a St. Vince de Paul (thrift store) but there were too many cars parked.) Like the Internet, GPS has been millennialized. Dozens of advertised spots are closed up but there is nobody to take down the ads. Finding a dot on the useless downtown GPS screen, I saw an old fixer upper. And it was indeed in bad shape. See this picture of Green Gables, built by a millionaire New York couple as a foursquare, this had been added onto for decades and includes plenty of the Florida specialty, the walled in porch.
           This was the only tour I took this time, I was there over an hour. It is a hands-on museum, where you can touch everything, but plainly that won’t last long. Like my house, it is too full of small valuable articles to trust any strangers.

           This photo shows the current SE corner of the building, it typifies the American saga of three generations riches to rags. The descendents squandered the cash and let the place go to rack & ruin. They had even removed the doorknobs and lights before the historical society got mobilized. The tour guides are husband-hunting ladies dressed like maids. And they are still begging the property owners to return the [original] bathtub.

           What’s amusing is several features of the house revealing how good people have it today without realizing their luck. I live equally as comfortable as these millionaires, who must have paid through the nose for their comfort. Can you see this small piece of screen? It formed a partition between the entrance and family room, so the one centrally located fireplace could heat both rooms. When it got too cold, which we now know happens more in Florida than it should, curtains were placed over these screens to keep the heat in one room. This photo does not convey how these large screens were from India and carved from a single piece of wood.

           And closets. This place was rare in have one in every bedroom and a couple more here and there. The explanation is back then, closets were taxed as rooms. Government intrusion into what is inside your private property is nothing new in America. It’s amusing to see how the closets were added on, often restricting movement in the bedrooms. The stairways are narrow, barely 30” wide, so anything large on the upper floor had to be winched in through a window. There are separate husband and wife bedrooms, revealing once again that millionaire’s sex lives are very much the opposite of mine.

           The house has been severely neglected and added on to. Sadly, much of it was done badly, so only the core of the building is solid. Maybe you can see the differences in workmanship, the old how was built using “honest” lumber, meaning each piece was cut on site. (As opposed to mail-order houses, which look similar but were pre-cut.) In places, the roofing was not done right and large pieces of the interior have water damage. The “turret” is the master bedroom, the kitchen to the far right was once a separate structure with a breezeway.
           I found the ladies a bit pushy, but that could be you don’t get many people like me showing up around there. They even bake and give away cookies, the entrance fee is as “voluntary” “suggested” “minimum” “donation” of ten dollars. Honestly, unless they triple that, this old house will revert to a college dorm again.

           The plumbing was added, so various rooms have boxes to hide the worst of it. The porch and veranda were afterthoughts, now settling into the ground, straining the timbers of the older parts. In some areas, the staff did not do their homework, but I was able to lend some history. For example, their phonograph was missing the little spring and cover that kept the needle “floating” on the records. Play it with the full weight, which they were and wondering why the platter ran slow, is scraping away a little of your record was each time.
           Shown next is I found the fusebox. Hidden at the top of the narrow stairwell, so narrow you had to call out to use it as two people could not pass or see around the corner. There were two stairs, the one mentioned with a landing half-way up, and the other a plainly dangerous thirty-foot fall directly from the upstairs to the front door. Narrow enough to catch yourself, that stairway was wisely blocked from usage. The kitchen appliances were definitely 1940s and like all good household of the day, had a built-in scale. Some recipes today are still written in weight instead of volume.

Picture of the day.
Belleville, Ontario, Canada.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.

           By now famished, I used the GPS to find non-franchise restaurants, and they were all bankrupted by COVID. I was in the north end of the city, near the library and post office, both of which I visited, see addendum. Google maps is plainly ten years out of date, but as far as they are concerned, you can eat in your next life. I finally opted for Thai sushi, the Amazing Chicken, which for me was pretty standard. The staff was Korean. I used the break to plan the rest of the day. This town lacks character and later I was to see only one good-looking female and she was surrounded by uglies who knew the score.

           The museum had suggested O’Malleys, but when I arrived it was a pub. Nix that, pubs should sell beer, restaurants should serve food. A decided against the 45 minute wait. Hey, don’t you agree I’m getting much better at taking pictures? Thank the blog for that and don’t forget, this is text-base. Every photo you see is a gift from me to you, just hold down the applause, this is also an older building.

           The historic district isn’t really anything of the past. It’s the shops that survived, which I have come to learn are normally operated by some rich kid who dropped out of college, but whose parents prop up the store to keep them out of the house all day. Zero history there, just six blocks of tattoo parlors, tax refund kiosks, native Indian jewelry (ha-ha), $15 burger joints, the usual art galleries, one ice cream parlor, and a botique wafting incense onto the sidewalk. The only feature was a street fiddler from Utah who could only play Vivaldi. I have video. The nicest buildings were law offices, giving the whole district that “west bank” feeling.

           This trip was unique in several ways. It is the first time I had planned an overnight, but decided no. Say, there is an excellent shot of the van parked by the ice-cream place. By 5:00PM, I packed up and drove home. Forgetting the madhouse traffic near Kissimmee, I drove around the artillery range (a big vacant space between here and the coast that they dare not develop for obvious reasons). Taking the side roads, in one spot in Kissimmee, where the roads are like Miami, perpetually dug up, I spent 18 minutes going four blocks. Yet there were no jams, just people who would not move when the light was green. So, I curtailed a weekend trip for the comfort of home.
           Three hours outbound, only two heading back, I was trying to beat the dark and listening to my murder mystery. If I was a hanging judge, I would not much listen to these mass murderers who plainly set up a demon possession story in advance. It’s just too consistent, like they all read the same set of instructions. As almost always, the police have the guy on a list, but police are far too busy handing out traffic citations, patrolling prositutes, and dreaming of celebrity busts. It’s now ten years into the true story and they haven’t even questioned the bad guy.

ADDENDUM
           Here’s another of those coincidences I don’t believe in. Y’day, I mentioned stopping in the library in Winter Haven. While there, I walked down a few random aisles where they had rearranged the furniture. I glanced at hundreds of book titles, just scanning for anything interesting. One of the books was by Carlin, the humorist, called “Braindroppings”. I noticed it and nothing more. Today I found the Melbourne library and went in to use the computers before closing time. (No ID needed but they charge you a dollar, so it’s user-friendly.) Some twenty minutes before closing (5:00PM) the computers being shutting down, but still having time, I arbitrarily chose an aisle and looked for titles.

           There’s your picture, the first book I chose out of the blue was “Braindroppings”. I just don’t know what to make of such events. I took Highway 60 home, stopping in at the old club. They have this new guy doing Karaoke, a rolly-polly type with an excellent high-range voice. Back on statins (for cholesterol) I’m again experiencing side effects, so I planned on a quiet beer in the corner. Nope, my fan club was there. The one Elliott says I don’t have. They kept buying me beers until I got up and sang, several tunes, actually.
           They took videos, of which I have copies. I won’t send them to Elliott, because he’s English. Although he has never had any kind of following, if he did, it would not be just ten or fifteen like yours. He’d have a real following. Anyway, I had the formerly dead room singing and rocking in the aisles in no time. That, Elliott, is why I have a following and you don’t. BWAAAA-ha-ha-ha.

           On the weekend, I ran into Rick, a guitar player I’ve mentioned here. He has all backing tracks and loop pedals and such, but says he knows somebody. I’m so stoked to get back on stage I’ve been thinking of my old bass act, where I just played bass along to the original tunes, but louder. The Karaoke guy tonight rekindled this thought, because like myself, he can mimic the original vocals in unison with stunning accuracy. I have to ask if that is a sellable option for me. Just be careful where I play, you know, stick to the old folk’s homes.
           When I got home, the raccoons had torn down my main birdfeeder. They seem to have pulled it right off the metal hook, which I cannot allow to continue. The spot is protected by the new baffles, so they are using some other approach. But what?

Last Laugh